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May 14, 2008 Choice Recently I had a discussion with my good friend, Sara, about choice; the method, the theory, choices people make, whether or not we have a choice, those with choices and those without -- etc. She believed that we all have choices. And to bemoan the ramifications of those choices is, in essence, to bemoan our own bad decisions and judgment. To a degree I do agree with her, especially when it concerns Americans, or those living, most especially, in first world countries. Most of us in this country are born into privileged lives. Most of us want for nothing. Most of us have roofs over our heads, food in our bellies, and our health. However, on the same token there are some choices none of us make.On this subject my friend Shannon believes that we choose who we fall in love with, that it is our choice to lead ourselves into pleasure or pain, rapture or heartache. I could not disagree more. I have never, nor can I ever foresee, "choosing" the person to whom I willingly and trustingly extend my heart. For me, love, lust, and all that revolves around it is a swirling mess of chemicals, bound up in blood, motivated by a beating heart. The choice to fall in love, or not, has never been mine. To say that I choose to love is to say that it is logical, rational, and non-instinctive. I think we all know that this is not the case. It's the only way I've ever been able to rationalize smart, wise people making the dumbest, imprudent decisions with their lives - all in the name of love. Love, above all, is instinct, a drive more primal than civilized, more unfocused than controlled. Furthermore, this writing that I do. This thing by which, and through which, I justify and define my existence on this earth, I did not, in any conceivable way, choose. In a strange, inexplicable manner, my writing chose me, and I have, always and forever, been its willing, sometimes unwilling, slave. There was no conscious thought when I first sat down and set pencil to paper; there was no thought at all. (In all honesty, if there had been, I might not have traveled down this path at all.) All there was was an impetus, a need to push stories out of me, to force them out of my brain. Little did I know at the time that each story I carved out, imaginary lives etched indelibly in granite blocks of blank white pages, would make room for yet another, and another, and another. Leading me to believe that I'll never be done, and all these worlds and lives and deaths will fade forever when I finally retire into the mystery of death. Choice, just like deserve, is a word that psychiatrists and psychologists like to bandy about so people can feel better about themselves when they act inappropriately or do something painfully stupid or when their life is plummeting out of control. For the most part, there is choice in life. It is always better to choose an intelligent path than an ignorant one. But some things are chosen for us, some things are, most assuredly, beyond our control. Does anyone truly believe that those devastated in Katrina, or those being swept away by the powerful hand of nature in Yangon, Myanmar actually CHOSE to die; or that children being eaten away by Cancer CHOSE their dreaded fates. I doubt it. Why the very idea is absurd. Remember, it's the effort not the outcome that matters, and it's how we react to our choices, good or bad, that defines as human. [Add Comment] 0 Comments |
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